Depth Perception
by Piru-tan
Summary: Time having come to a standstill, Subaru lives in the blurred space between waking and dreaming. Seishirou x Subaru, PG13.


**Title:** Depth Perception  
**Fandom:** _X/1999_ (& _Tokyo Babylon_ by proxy)  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s):** Seishirou/Subaru, mentions of the Sumeragi clan.  
**Dedication: **sui, because I know you've been a fan of X & TB and Subaru for close to forever.   
**Prompt:** Dark Theme #4 - "my days are the highway kind"  
**Description:** Time having come to a standstill, Subaru lives in the blurred space between waking and dreaming.  
**Rating:** PG-13 for implied shounen-ai, angst, and alcohol usage.  
**Word Count:** 3,904  
**Status:** Completed and with minor edits  
**Other Notes:** This was written for the 20inkspots community on LiveJournal, so this has two parts—the fic itself, and the lovely illustration by my artist partner, Frostocelot. You can see the accompanying picture on her DeviantArt at: www dot deviantart dot com slash deviation slash 44346925. All credit goes to her for that and if you have a dA account, please take the time to leave her a comment as well :)  
Our goal with all 20 themes is to leave the context of the setting (timeline-wise) entirely up to the reader. Some spoilage for TB, which, if you're an X & SxS fan, you should've read by now anyway. There's no excuse. Other than that, I took a lot of artistic liberties with this, as you may notice. I won't point them out here because I don't want to spoil the entire fic, but just be wary of it. I have roadtripped across the Southwest so I do vaguely know what I'm talking about. I haven't been to Tokyo, but most of my observations about life in the streets there are based upon what I observed on my visits to NYC, which I'm going to assume is decently similar. Lastly, I'm no alcoholic, really, I just felt that alcoholic drinks can be great metaphors for people's personalities.

* * *

There's an endless stretch of empty road straining to meet the sky at the horizon. The colors are more intense than any he's ever seen before. The highway's asphalt is an intense ebony, as though it's just been laid yesterday, but more than likely it's actually because nobody travels here very much. The mountain ridges behind them and the plains ahead are dusty and tinged with a red-orange hue. "Adobe", he's heard it called. The azure sky is entirely free of clouds, and the contrast with the earth is almost overwhelming.

It takes him a second to realize that he's not actually awake. Not that it's a dreamscape in the purest sense—it's actually a memory; he's been here before, though not in many years. It's the road that took a contingent of the Sumeragi clan from California through Arizona to New Mexico for a high-profile exorcism case. An accident involving misguided voodoo magic had had the occult community in an uproar, and some higher-ups had transmitted a request for the most powerful onmyouji to come in, help contain the wanton magic, and then attack the problem at its source. They'd taken a plane to Los Angeles but were driving to New Mexico from there. He'd questioned his grandmother about that—"Why not just take another plane?"—but she'd simply smiled enigmatically and whispered, "Because the journey is just as important as the destination."

And thus he'd found himself in the front passenger seat of an old wooden station wagon, leaning his head out of the window to ascertain that the colors really are that vivid and not just an illusion. The never-ending stretch of asphalt is hypnotic, and he finds himself spacing out for periods on end.

When his focus returns, he's mesmerized by the car's side mirrors. His eyes are drawn to the tiny words: "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." The only reflection he sees, however, is the faint image of the mountain range. He turns his head the other way, wondering if perhaps the mountains really aren't as far behind as they seem in the mirror, but in reality the ridges are still quite a ways off in the distance.

He wonders what those words mean, then. "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear."

Meanwhile, the scenery in front of them hasn't really changed. The treeless skyline still beckons from what could be ten, a hundred, or a million miles away—when the earth is so wholly flat, it's almost impossible to gauge the distance.

This time, when he zones out, his vision fades to black, but the last he remembers of the dream are his eyes lingering on those captivating words: "Objects in mirror..."

* * *

When he wakes, the same name as always is on his lips. The digital clock on his nightstand reads 11:00; he's had five hours of sleep, but it feels like less.

It takes him longer than usual to find the impetus to rise out of bed. His groggy mind is fighting to hold onto the fading dream, vainly trying to recreate the intense hues. But all he can really focus on are those words. And what does Seishirou's name have to do with it all, anyway?

He wonders, too, why now, all of a sudden, he finds himself remembering the expedition to New Mexico. Despite his grandmother's mysterious admonition to value the journey itself, it hadn't made much of an impression on him at the time.

So why recall it twelve years later, when it bears no obvious significance to the present state of his life, or even the world at large?

Or does it?

Ambling to the bathroom, he splashes his face with cold water a few times before pausing long enough to look at himself in the mirror. His reflection looks the same, everything looks the same, but he can't shake this feeling that that wasn't any ordinary dream, that nothing right now is ordinary.

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear."

But what does it _mean_?

He reaches out for his reflection, wondering if perhaps he can touch it without ever making contact with the mirror. But he feels nothing. Just air, empty air. When he lunges forward a little more, his fingertips brushing cool glass. No warm skin, nor any essence of a living being. Just a reflection in a mirror.

He shakes his head and walks away. Surely the demons in his head are at it again. That's the only _logical_ explanation.

Making his way to the kitchen to satisfy his craving for some strong coffee, Subaru scoffs at his own train of thought. After all, he stopped believing in logic nine years ago.

* * *

The skies of Tokyo are a sharp contrast with those of his nocturnal recollection of the Southwestern U.S. It's been dreary and overcast all day, drizzling off and on. Gone are the vivid colors; the city's residents have responded to the weather by donning dark-hued jackets and raincoats, and at one point Subaru wonders whether he hasn't suddenly become trapped in a badly-lit black-and-white film; the tones are so drab and muted.

19:00, and Tokyo's rush hour is still in full force. Streets are crowded with pedestrians, cyclists, and cars alike. Everyone seems to be single-mindedly bent on the same goal: to return home. Subaru appears to be the only one trying to leave this vague notion of "home" behind.

He'd canceled his current apartment earlier this afternoon, upon which he met with his agent, who had already found him another. They had gone together to inspect the property, more as a formality than out of true necessity. Subaru's agent knew by now that the exact specifications were of little importance, so long as the room provided a bed, a bathroom with a shower and good plumbing, and a small kitchen. They had gone through this ritual of sorts many times already.

It had taken Subaru ages to find an agent who did not question him about his habit of switching apartments at the end of every month. He paid the man well, of course, but some of his earlier brokers had been difficult about his inability to explain why he felt the impulse to move around so much rather than staying in a single place.

After all, there is no way to explain to others what you cannot even explain to yourself.

It's a sense of restlessness in his heart rather than in his bones. It's the sense of a desire that is unfulfilled, that has no way of being fulfilled, and attempting to find comfort in constantly changing one's surroundings. It's the need to not form any lasting personal attachments and to destroy all sense of home and belonging, because he already feels as though he's lost his place in this world.

Lighting up a cigarette and inhaling a puff of smoke without slowing his pace, he closes his eyes for just a second and feels calmer already. The pungent sting in his nostrils and the back of his throat, the slow spreading of tar in his lungs, and the knowledge that he's dying a little more swiftly with every whiff, are some of the only familiarities he allows himself these days.

The feeling that he is not yet quite awake has not receded. All day, he's found his eyes being drawn to mirrors and reflective surfaces of any kind. As he advances toward his destination with a steady gait, his eyes stray to the shops' windows that line the street, not out of any interest in the wares they advertise but out of the vain hope that the glass might somehow lend some meaning to the lingering sense of reverie.

By the time he finds himself leaving the shopping districts for a shadier part of town, his thoughts have descended into jumbled incoherence, and it takes Subaru a second to adjust to his new surroundings. He's not too familiar with this area, but that doesn't mean that he's surprised by what he sees. High-class shoppers and businessmen have given way to displaced youth, underprivileged wanderers, and vagabonds of various kinds. However, there's still enough of the mainstream middle-class traveling the streets that one has no particular need to be wary of crime any more than in any other part of town. Just continue to cast down your eyes and keep walking.

Subaru would prefer to look at the sky, however, and his wandering gaze is soon met by the inquisitive eyes of some of the less fortunate roaming among the crowds. Their stares are cold, hard, and unemotional—much like his own, he supposes. He feels an innate sense of affinity with them.

His eyes suddenly settle on a pair of jade-green orbs, whose hue is so contrary to their murky, bleak surroundings that Subaru can't help but be drawn in. They belong to a woman of indeterminate age, with forgettable features save for a thick mole on the side of her nose. She beckons Subaru from the other side of the moving mass of bodies, and he finds himself answering her call without even giving it much thought.

As he approaches, he sees that she's wearing a black cloak and carrying an old-fashioned wicker basket filled with candles, charms, glass orbs, and other such trinkets. He realizes that she is probably one of the many street peddlers whom the city police has been forcefully cracking down on, and so she is forced to conduct her business on the move rather than setting up a booth in the streets. As a high-ranked onmyouji, he has no need for psychics, but, like many of the unsuspecting masses before him, he finds himself lured by her, by that something about her, nonetheless—the promise of an answer, perhaps; for some meaning in a world that has none.

Neither of them ever stop walking, but they simply turn to one another as they continue on their way. He knows that custom calls for him to initiate the process by asking a question, but something about the taciturn woman's attitude tells him there is no need.

She already knows.

When she finally speaks, her voice is no more than a hoarse whisper. "Tell me, are you searching for something or are you running away? Your inability to stay in one place for too long—is it because you're afraid that you won't find him if you don't keep moving? Or, is it because you're afraid that he'll be the one to find you first, rather than the reverse?"

Subaru looks startled, the butt of his cigarette dropping to the ground from his open mouth, and as though to emphasize her point, the woman nudges in the direction of his gloved hands.

He finds himself staring at the backs of his palms as though with new eyes. There have been days when he has actually managed to forget the markings there and what they mean, so that the woman calling attention to them leaves him awestruck. When he finally gets his thoughts together, the only coherent deduction he has been able to make is that this is no ordinary quack medium, but by the time he looks back up, she has already disappeared into the crowd.

She never even requested payment.

For the second time in one day, Subaru can't shake the feeling that he's dreaming when he's awake and awake when he's dreaming.

* * *

By the time the exorcism is complete, it's after 02:00. The family had requested that an elaborate ritual be performed, and they had required the onmyouji to be a part of it. They had payed him a generous sum for taking up so much of his time, of course, but when Subaru sent the boy's spirit on to the next world, the simplicity of the act was almost a letdown after the complex ceremony that had preceded it.

Exhausted emotionally even moreso than mentally—as unemotional as he may like to act, he could not pretend to be entirely unaffected by the mother's tears—he decides he wants to take a break and catch his bearings before returning to his apartment. There's nothing to do at home but go to bed, after all, and he doesn't feel ready for sleep quite yet.

As he walks back toward the livelier districts, he keeps his eyes open for somewhere he can sit down and collect his thoughts. It appears that the local bars are some of the only establishments that are still open at this hour, and he instinctively heads for one of the less shady-looking ones.

There are no open booths so he heads for the bar, seating himself upon one of the stools at the far end. It doesn't take long for the bartender to come over and inquire as to what he'd like to drink. Subaru orders a White Russian without giving it too much thought.

When the bartender has finished mixing the cocktail, he deposits it in front of Subaru without another word. He's apparently not the chatty kind, and Subaru is glad—he just wants to be alone with his thoughts for a while. Slowly sipping at his drink, he soon finds, however, that he can't really concentrate his mind on anything coherent, and so his eyes roam about the dimly-lit establishment as though searching for something comforting to rest his gaze on while he attempts to sort through the jumbled contents of his head.

Mirror. There's a mirror behind the bar.

Funny how he hadn't noticed it initially. It's not that unusual, however, now that he's thinking about it; a lot of bars have large mirrors on the walls. Why? He'd never really given it thought before.

A sad smile crosses his lips as he fights to return his attention to his cocktail. What's with his sudden fascination with mirrors, anyway? It really is about time that he draw the line between dreams and reality.

"Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." He doesn't even realize that he says it aloud this time.

He can't resist the urge to look back up at the mirror, though, and when he gives in, the reflection takes him entirely by surprise.

Standing behind him is the figure of a tall, lean, and admittedly rather handsome man clad in a suit and black trench coat. He should be in his thirties now but shows no signs of aging. The long, placid face with its angular features is topped with every-so-slightly wavy black hair that is neatly styled, though a few stray locks do partially cover his eyes. He's not wearing sunglasses because he's indoors, leaving the fact that he only has one real, functional eye plain for all to see.

For a brief moment, Subaru thinks that he clearly _must_ be hallucinating this time. (He didn't drink that much, did he? The glass is still a good three-quarters full.)

There's only one way to find out, really. Reaching behind him, he discovers that the figure is even closer than the proximity in the mirror suggests. _Objects in mirror are closer than they appear, indeed._ Still, he can't help but gasp when his fingertips come in contact with cloth and warm flesh.

"I see you got my message." The slightly playfully teasing, slightly sarcastic, slightly sinister lilt is accompanied by that all-too-familiar half-smirk that still haunts him in his dreams on many nights.

He's tempted to ask which message was his—the dream, the psychic in the street, or something else entirely—but he realizes it no longer matters. There are so many other questions to ask, and, knowing Seishirou, so little time to ask them in.

"Why?" is the only thing that manages to spill out on his lips.

Seishirou's chuckle as he takes a seat on the stool beside Subaru's has a cruel edge to it. "Come now, Subaru-kun, you've been waiting so many years to be reunited with me and confront me. Surely, you can do better than that."

But Subaru is speechless. Nine years of fretting couldn't adequately prepare him for this moment. Perhaps the strange woman earlier was right—maybe he had insisted upon searching for Seishirou because finding the other first meant that he would be prepared, that he would have the upper hand in the inevitable confrontation. At the very least, he'd remember all the questions he longs to have answered. Now the shock factor has numbed his brain to such an extent that surely if he opens his mouth, all that will come out is inane drivel.

And thus Subaru finds himself sitting and simply watching the other man as though spellbound. Seishirou simply smiles smugly, then reaches across and takes Subaru's drink. He takes a whiff of the liquid before putting the glass to his mouth, downing it in only a few swigs. He then sits and plays with the glass, turning it about and about in his hands, while Subaru continues to observe his every move intently.

Subaru suddenly recalls the scene of the highway in Arizona, and the words begin to flow out on impulse. "Have you ever been on the road for so long that time seems to come to a standstill? It'll be bright as day outside but you've been staring at the same scenery for so long that it all seems to flow together and then come to a halt. And you're frozen, and you don't know how long the road behind you is, or even more importantly, how much further it is to the horizon in front, because the sensation of being trapped in time and space is making it impossible to gauge the distance?"

Seishirou does give it a moment's thought before responding. "Does it really matter how far, though, as long as you know you're moving? Does it even really matter if there's a destination, so long as you know that this is the road you want to travel, and you're moving forward without looking back?"

"I... I don't..." Subaru's fighting desperately to keep the tone of hopelessness out of his voice because it means that Seishirou is winning. "I just want to know how much farther I have to go."

"I can't answer that question." Seishirou is shaking his head for emphasis. "Let me tell you something about these eyes of mine. Have you ever heard about the fact that if you lose your sight in one eye, you essentially lose your depth perception? So technically, I can't gauge distances. You could be sitting here beside me, or an arm's length away, or at the other end of the bar, and it would be the same. On that note, really, you could be in Osaka rather than Tokyo, and in the end it would all be the same."

Subaru is struck by a thought. "Is that why...? So you might've been here the whole time?" _Right behind me, laughing me, mocking me?_ "Or...?"

Seishirou simply chuckles again. "I'll leave that part up to your imagination."

"Tender." Seishirou beckons the man, who is rinsing out wine glasses farther down the bar. "Make the next one a black one."

On cue, the bartender mixes a Black Russian and sets it down in front of Seishirou, who hands it to a still-dumbstruck Subaru. He takes a tentative sip—he's never drunk it this way before—and finds the taste slightly bitter, but not wholly unpleasant. Seishirou is watching him with a bemused twinkle in his eye, and he knows he's being toyed with, but he still follows it up with a full draught of the liquid and subsequently has to fight to keep a straight face.

Finally, when the strong flavor in his mouth has receded, he murmurs, "Well, whether or not you can truly gauge distances, I'm telling you now—I'm right here in front of you. Not one, not ten, nor a hundred miles away. Right here. Right now."

Seishirou's laughter is downright condescending. "For whose benefit are you ascertaining this—mine or your own?"

Subaru looks stricken again, his resolve to find answers fading in the face of the new and even more confusing questions.

"Come." Seishirou motions toward the half-empty cup. "Finish your drink. I'll take you home."

Beginning to feel numb, Subaru nods yes and consumes the rest of the cocktail as Seishirou slips the bartender a few bills with a courteous but practiced and impersonal nod. Then they silently head for the exit, Subaru having made peace with the fact that he's going to let Seishirou lead him just this once. He's never had much of a capacity for alcohol, anyway, and at least Seishirou wouldn't let him be killed by muggers, if only to save the satisfaction of killing him for himself.

He doesn't ask why Seishirou knows where he lives. It just doesn't seem to matter anymore.

The rest of the journey is a blur. Neither of them says a word on the subway. Subaru takes a seat by the window and leans his head against the cool glass, hoping that'll help him maintain focus. Seishirou maintains standing, one hand only loosely gripping one of the steel poles for balance. His expression is unreadable; it's impossible to tell what he might be thinking.

The walk from the subway station to the apartment complex is a short one. Seishirou opens his mouth only once, to caution Subaru to watch his step when they reach a small ridge in the pavement. Subaru maintains his silence. There is no way to express to others what you cannot even express to yourself.

Seishirou takes him as far as his front door. When it becomes clear that he's not about to step aside, Subaru turns to face him, one hand reaching up to caress lightly the lid of the fake eye. His fingers trail down across Seishirou's face, very briefly coming into contact with his lips, before he lets his arm fall back down to his side. Seishirou doesn't even flinch. He just smiles that beautiful, disgusting half-smirk, pivots around, and disappears back into the darkness whence he came.

Subaru doesn't remember how he made it to the bed. He just recalls the feeling of wet fabric where his eyes touched his pillow before falling into a deep slumber.

* * *

The digital clock on his nightstand reads 07:00. He's had a little over three hours of sleep.

Was it all a dream? There's no way to be sure. He briefly considers checking for a receipt, but then he remembers that Seishirou paid for the drinks. Just like him—leave no evidence. Subaru knows he's been toyed with. He'd known the entire time, but he still let it happen all the same.

He used to think that the line between what is real and what is not is a very fine one. Now he knows that it's actually blurry. On which side of the line the events of last night existed, he doesn't know. But he does know one thing: if he has a choice between waking and the alternative, at this point, he'd rather be dreaming.

Turning over onto his side, he wraps the blankets back around him and closes his eyes, allowing sleep to overwhelm his senses again, eager to discover what might await him there.


End file.
